two sides of a story, Leon I (Baynbridge Marketplace, January 1259) ...

25

Jan

731

Leon I (Baynbridge Marketplace, January 1259)

Twang! With a satisfactory snap, whiz and thud the arrow embedded itself in a sack of flour. Off-white fine powder spilling free from the puncture, he heard two shrieks subsequently, brows wiggling at her indignation.
“Harrington!”
“Oi, take care with that name.”
“Leon—” Dorothea sighed and shrieked in cute exasperation, “—that coul’ have hit m—what did you do!?”
Falling to the ground before her sacks, she snapped the arrow out, scooping flour back into the wool sack with both hands. Smacking her lips, she stuck his arrow between her teeth purposefully while she worked, and then fell back with an oomph and a scowl. His lips flicked in an instant smirk, gaze trailing naturally over his arrow.
“Thea, I would not have hit you.” His eyebrows wiggled. “And I helped. You needed that sack open anyways—Arrah’s gonna tell you, you’re out in a bit now.”
His arrow popped out beneath two narrowed eyes, her brown fixed on his blue. Snap. She cracked the arrow between taut fingers, practiced at breaking bread. His nose wrinkled, but he chuckled with only a hint of aggravation. A hand lifting as if to stop her, he eyed the splintered wood laying on her flour-dusted hands.
“You owe me an arrow.”
Now a smile cracked over Dorothea’s lips, calmed by her destruction of his property. Typical. Winking at him, she spoke in a crisp Dorasian accent, words clipped as if by the breeze on their shores. “So don’t shoot at me next time. I’m not to be hunted.”
She didn’t move. Wearing a tan, unremarkable dress and brown apron, the skirt billowed around her in the dirt and flour-drenched floor. Curly brown hair dripping sweat from the hours spent in front of piping hot flames, she winked at him. He laughed. Oh, he knew he liked her. Dorothea worked in the castle’s kitchens. Leon had noticed that often when she served him, her hand had twitched by her side. Naturally he had an explanation that had made her gasp and frown, before telling him lightly it was that her fingers itched to smack him despite his station.
They had been friends ever since.
Noting the nostalgia in his gaze, she lifted her chin. It stuck out, the bottom row of teeth permanently in front of the top. A thick brow arched before she spoke in instant understanding, “When do you leave?”
Leon’s eyes closed and he leaned against the shelf beside her, wishing to ignore the question, wishing to think of something else. Where his brother itched to leave as her fingers itched to hit him—Leon’s enthusiasm fell short. Baynbridge was not truly safer than anywhere else in Leiland, but it felt safer, and he did not desire to separate from the only family he had left. Had he been able to take his siblings, his mother and the sparse friends with him safely, he would have. Eager as he was to see the bastard pay, it felt backwards to risk lives that weren’t his own to watch it happen.
That he would not tell his brother. Rob knew already. They all knew that the country continued to bleed from the open wound from the revolt. Anton Mercado should just drop dead, he thought as he flicked at the scar on the bridge of his nose, seeming to feel the break there. That and his jaw had healed months ago, before their lives had sank into this stupor. His thumb came down to caress his bottom lip, tracing an absent memory he could not name. Not if he wanted to remain sane. There was another reason the situation muddled in his mind, the path less clear-cut for him than for his siblings Dragging the bottom lip down and mouthing her name soundlessly across the split flesh, he shook his head.
“Leon.” Dorothea interrupted his reverie, eyes stuck on his own. The chastisement was enough to bring him back from tousled brown hair splayed on his chest and the hiss of his name in her ear. Free of the memory, he locked his gaze with his friends and then answered clearly,
“A week.” The word was synonymous with ‘as soon as possible.’ As soon as the ship could be packed with provisions and the sailors paid. As soon as the men had said goodbye to their families. As soon as he had said goodbye to his own.
“Good.” Her clear-cut answer cracked his lips in another smile, nodding in agreement. “Waiting’s been unbearable for everyone.”
Her words had a way of cutting straight to the heart of what bothered him, he noticed. The days at Baynbridge had stretched as though part of a drunken stupor; a haze of misguided actions and planning that felt more and more hopeless. Knowing there was a plan had lifted a weight off his chest even as it set another one. A heavy heart beating slowly in his chest, it was hung by anxiety and anger. Licking his bottom lip, he nodded again in agreement.
“I want it back.” He meant home, simply. Yearning and desire lent his usually jovial voice seriousness he loathed. Seriousness was a cancer that plagued his family enough, left hopelessness and despair in it’s wake. And perhaps he meant something else beneath that. Perhaps he meant his father, his uncle, his cousins. Perhaps he meant their innocence, their childhood—the naivete Corinne and Terrance would never truly know. Perhaps he meant nights he could not admit to. But those desires were folly, and he would not name them.
“You’ll get it back.” Dorothea had no hesitation in her voice, a brow popped in surprise over the heaviness in her friends gaze. He regarded her a second, and then nodded, standing off the wall with a chuckle.
“I know, luv. No worries.” He watched her expression clear as easily as his own did, the demons locked tightly away once more. Nodding at her bag of flour, still leaking powder from it’s wound, he added, “And then I’ll buy you a new bag.”
Both his eyebrows wiggled in unison, meeting in the middle of his forehead. There was no trace of his earlier unease; once spoken, however simplified, the desire did not seem as painfully heavy. Instead it hung between them in the air and whisked out the window, carried across the waves to the coast of his home, not to bother him again. Their purpose was heavy enough without dwelling on it. She chuckled. The sound was light and airy, bringing an ease to his grin.
“Well, then you might get a new arrow from me.”
“That right?” Leon chuckled, eying her hand. Snatching, he came back with only feathers; her palms had clasped tight around the pieces. Wrinkling his nose, she shook her head.
“Oh no. This was a gift, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, obviously.” Leon shook his head, incredulous himself at her attitude, and laughing under his breath. She winked again, running her hand through her hair and wringing a few drops of moisture free to fall to the floor. Considering him a moment, she hopped back to her feet, patting hands down on her long skirt and then flicking her lips up at him in an easy smile.
“What—”
“I’m coming with you.”
Leon’s brows furrowed and then he lifted his own chin.
“…Not to war, idiot. My bread would go stale.” As if that was the real reason why. “To the yard.”
“I assume that was said with all due respect.” His lips flicked in a smirk.
“Haven’t hit you yet, have I?”
“I admire your restraint.”
The quip was quick and he winked at her.

Leon I (Baynbridge Marketplace, January 1259)

Twang! With a satisfactory snap, whiz and thud the arrow embedded itself in a sack of flour. Off-white fine powder spilling free from the puncture, he heard two shrieks subsequently, brows wiggling at her indignation.

“Harrington!”

“Oi, take care with that name.”

“Leon—” Dorothea sighed and shrieked in cute exasperation, “—that coul’ have hit m—what did you do!?”

Falling to the ground before her sacks, she snapped the arrow out, scooping flour back into the wool sack with both hands. Smacking her lips, she stuck his arrow between her teeth purposefully while she worked, and then fell back with an oomph and a scowl. His lips flicked in an instant smirk, gaze trailing naturally over his arrow.

“Thea, I would not have hit you.” His eyebrows wiggled. “And I helped. You needed that sack open anyways—Arrah’s gonna tell you, you’re out in a bit now.”

His arrow popped out beneath two narrowed eyes, her brown fixed on his blue. Snap. She cracked the arrow between taut fingers, practiced at breaking bread. His nose wrinkled, but he chuckled with only a hint of aggravation. A hand lifting as if to stop her, he eyed the splintered wood laying on her flour-dusted hands.

“You owe me an arrow.”

Now a smile cracked over Dorothea’s lips, calmed by her destruction of his property. Typical. Winking at him, she spoke in a crisp Dorasian accent, words clipped as if by the breeze on their shores. “So don’t shoot at me next time. I’m not to be hunted.”

She didn’t move. Wearing a tan, unremarkable dress and brown apron, the skirt billowed around her in the dirt and flour-drenched floor. Curly brown hair dripping sweat from the hours spent in front of piping hot flames, she winked at him. He laughed. Oh, he knew he liked her. Dorothea worked in the castle’s kitchens. Leon had noticed that often when she served him, her hand had twitched by her side. Naturally he had an explanation that had made her gasp and frown, before telling him lightly it was that her fingers itched to smack him despite his station.

They had been friends ever since.

Noting the nostalgia in his gaze, she lifted her chin. It stuck out, the bottom row of teeth permanently in front of the top. A thick brow arched before she spoke in instant understanding, “When do you leave?”

Leon’s eyes closed and he leaned against the shelf beside her, wishing to ignore the question, wishing to think of something else. Where his brother itched to leave as her fingers itched to hit him—Leon’s enthusiasm fell short. Baynbridge was not truly safer than anywhere else in Leiland, but it felt safer, and he did not desire to separate from the only family he had left. Had he been able to take his siblings, his mother and the sparse friends with him safely, he would have. Eager as he was to see the bastard pay, it felt backwards to risk lives that weren’t his own to watch it happen.

That he would not tell his brother. Rob knew already. They all knew that the country continued to bleed from the open wound from the revolt. Anton Mercado should just drop dead, he thought as he flicked at the scar on the bridge of his nose, seeming to feel the break there. That and his jaw had healed months ago, before their lives had sank into this stupor. His thumb came down to caress his bottom lip, tracing an absent memory he could not name. Not if he wanted to remain sane. There was another reason the situation muddled in his mind, the path less clear-cut for him than for his siblings Dragging the bottom lip down and mouthing her name soundlessly across the split flesh, he shook his head.

“Leon.” Dorothea interrupted his reverie, eyes stuck on his own. The chastisement was enough to bring him back from tousled brown hair splayed on his chest and the hiss of his name in her ear. Free of the memory, he locked his gaze with his friends and then answered clearly,

“A week.” The word was synonymous with ‘as soon as possible.’ As soon as the ship could be packed with provisions and the sailors paid. As soon as the men had said goodbye to their families. As soon as he had said goodbye to his own.

“Good.” Her clear-cut answer cracked his lips in another smile, nodding in agreement. “Waiting’s been unbearable for everyone.”

Her words had a way of cutting straight to the heart of what bothered him, he noticed. The days at Baynbridge had stretched as though part of a drunken stupor; a haze of misguided actions and planning that felt more and more hopeless. Knowing there was a plan had lifted a weight off his chest even as it set another one. A heavy heart beating slowly in his chest, it was hung by anxiety and anger. Licking his bottom lip, he nodded again in agreement.

“I want it back.” He meant home, simply. Yearning and desire lent his usually jovial voice seriousness he loathed. Seriousness was a cancer that plagued his family enough, left hopelessness and despair in it’s wake. And perhaps he meant something else beneath that. Perhaps he meant his father, his uncle, his cousins. Perhaps he meant their innocence, their childhood—the naivete Corinne and Terrance would never truly know. Perhaps he meant nights he could not admit to. But those desires were folly, and he would not name them.

“You’ll get it back.” Dorothea had no hesitation in her voice, a brow popped in surprise over the heaviness in her friends gaze. He regarded her a second, and then nodded, standing off the wall with a chuckle.

“I know, luv. No worries.” He watched her expression clear as easily as his own did, the demons locked tightly away once more. Nodding at her bag of flour, still leaking powder from it’s wound, he added, “And then I’ll buy you a new bag.”

Both his eyebrows wiggled in unison, meeting in the middle of his forehead. There was no trace of his earlier unease; once spoken, however simplified, the desire did not seem as painfully heavy. Instead it hung between them in the air and whisked out the window, carried across the waves to the coast of his home, not to bother him again. Their purpose was heavy enough without dwelling on it. She chuckled. The sound was light and airy, bringing an ease to his grin.

“Well, then you might get a new arrow from me.”

“That right?” Leon chuckled, eying her hand. Snatching, he came back with only feathers; her palms had clasped tight around the pieces. Wrinkling his nose, she shook her head.

“Oh no. This was a gift, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, obviously.” Leon shook his head, incredulous himself at her attitude, and laughing under his breath. She winked again, running her hand through her hair and wringing a few drops of moisture free to fall to the floor. Considering him a moment, she hopped back to her feet, patting hands down on her long skirt and then flicking her lips up at him in an easy smile.

“What—”

“I’m coming with you.”

Leon’s brows furrowed and then he lifted his own chin.

“…Not to war, idiot. My bread would go stale.” As if that was the real reason why. “To the yard.”

“I assume that was said with all due respect.” His lips flicked in a smirk.

“Haven’t hit you yet, have I?”

“I admire your restraint.”

The quip was quick and he winked at her.

(Source: needagoodmistake, via onceuponatimecaps)

(originally from needagoodmistake)
• leon harrington • excerpt • legacy chapter

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